


By Default // By Design

by Make_It_Worse



Series: Follower Appreciation [5]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Begging, Bottom Connor, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Is a Brat, Embarrassment, Fluffy Ending, Hank Anderson is So Done, Hank is big, M/M, Orgasm Delay, Power Bottom Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Rough Sex, Service Top Hank, TAG ALL THE THINGS, Top Hank Anderson, no beta we die like men, reverse au, some of these tags are to err on the side of caution, voyeurism sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 00:51:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17436734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: “Take your time,” Hank reminds him and Connor nods. With each moment of inaction, he worries he’ll lose his nerve. It’s been a long time and Hank is…Big. There isn’t any other word for it.__Connor, an overworked clothing designer, who is also a huge brat. Hank, an HK800 android model, who isn't having any of it.A gift fic for @RKsoGAY :)Apparently, the title of this fic is also the title of a song o_O





	By Default // By Design

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sichi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sichi/gifts).



Connor leans against his desk, palms down and hip cocked to one side. His head sags heavily and he tries his hardest to rein in his anger. A terrified young woman stands behind him, waiting. Her jet-black curls tremble with anticipation. With each moment that Connor doesn’t speak, her trepidation grows.

“How many times,” he begins deceptively soft, “have I told you—”

“Please, sir. I ordered it exactly as you asked.” Connor lifts his right hand, his index finger running a long trail down the side of a steaming cup of coffee. He pauses for a moment before prodding it slowly across the surface of the desk. It tips precariously at the edge before dropping with a dull thump into the waiting waste bin below.

“Get out,” he emphasizes each word as if it was its own sentence. The girl scrambles from of the room, tears forming behind thick-rimmed glasses. He goes about straightening up his desk when he hears someone clear his throat behind him. He looks to see who it is before rolling his eyes and bringing his attention back to the mess in front of him.

“I had high hopes for that one,” Markus comments casually, coming to rest beside Connor, arms folded.

“She couldn’t order a simple coffee. How difficult it that? Black coffee. That’s it. No cream, no sugar, no cinnamon, no cutesy holiday limited time—,” Markus raises a hand, well versed in Connor’s preference for tasteless caffeinated beverages.

“Did you ever think maybe she was trying to do something nice for you? Bring some cheer into your bleak, black coffee and cigarettes existence?” Connor scowls at Markus, but the man is examining his fingernails, ignoring him, “You know why I’m here, right?”

Connor suppresses a wince. He and Markus may be friends, but Markus still expects results. As the marketing director, he relies on Connor to design pieces for him to promote. It was a precarious balance, managing personal history with job expectations.

“I know,” when Markus gives him a skeptical look Connor doubles down, “I _know_ , ok? I just feel so…constipated.” An indelicate snort escapes Markus’ nose and Connor glowers, “You know what I mean. I haven’t felt creative in weeks—months, really, if I’m being honest. Everything I design comes out like shi—,”

“Connor, your worst work is better than most people’s pièce de résistance.” Connor sighs heavily while looking up at the ceiling, fingers itching for a cigarette.

“I don’t want to see people wearing designs that I’m not proud of…it’s humiliating.” Connor’s voice takes on a falsetto, his hand held to his face as if speaking into a microphone, “ _And who are you wearing this evening? Oh, is that an Arkait_?” He drops the act, “Then they’ll pan to the person’s dress or suit or whatever and I’ll have to hurl a drink at my television.”

“Well, that’s a bit dramatic. Even for you.” Connor stalks away from Markus to the other side of his desk, wrenching open a drawer. His hands search haphazardly before finding purchase against a half-empty pack of menthols.

Markus wrinkles his nose, “Didn’t you just buy that pack this morning?”

“Yesterday,” Connor mumbles before heading to the Juliet balcony attached to his office.

“You know I hate it when you smoke inside,” Markus complains when Connor’s lighter flares into life.

Connor brings the tip of the cigarette to the flame before waving a flippant hand at him over his shoulder, “That’s why I had them install this thing.”

“You knocked out the bottom half of a window and put up a guardrail. You’re not _outside_ Connor.”

Connor smirks at Markus before thrusting his arm out and waving it around, “Feels like fresh air to me.”

Shaking his head, Markus tries to bring Connor back to his main point, “Look. This is a very big client. It is a huge deal. You cannot waffle this one.” Markus sees Connor’s shoulders hunch and he knows he has his attention, “I’ll get you another assistant by tomorrow, but you and I both know that’s not the problem.”

Connor takes a long drag before exhaling in a huff, “I know! I know she’s a big deal, alright. Even if she’s _old_.”

Markus makes a horrified sound behind Connor, “Fifty-two is not _old_ , Connor!”

Connor exhales another menthol cloud before muttering, “She wore a fucking _meat suit_ once.” He snubs out his cigarette and turns to face Markus, “Fine, fine. The Lady isn’t old. But, you have to admit, it’s hard to design for Gaga.”

Markus shrugs off Connor’s concern as easily as a silk robe, “You’ll do fine. You’ll create something spectacular, as always, and be the darling of the runway.” Connor tries to smile at Markus, but he doesn’t feel it.

His previous big pieces had been the result of weeks of methodical and often maniacal work. He drafted and sewed and started over in a fervor down to the last minute before the owner donned the piece. This time, he feels nothing. He has two months before Lady Gaga will arrive for a fitting and he can feel the calendar staring at him.

Markus isn’t ready to let the issue drop, “When was the last time you took a break, Connor?”

Connor’s head swivels to stare at him as if he started speaking in tongues, “A break? On this deadline?” His voice comes out dry and cracked, strangled slightly by the terror of failing.

“You can’t keep going at this pace. You’ve been churning out piece after piece to keep up with demand, but those were all staples. You need to unwind if you’re going to do this piece right.” Connor glowers at him and Markus throws up his hands, “Fine! Far be it from me to tell you how to live your life. I’ll have HR send a new assistant tomorrow. Try not to burn the place down, will you?” He casts a dark glance at the smoldering remains of Connor’s cigarette before seeing himself out of the office.

As it turns out, HR can’t get an assistant by the following day. After doing some digging, Markus discovers the issue, “You’ve been blacklisted. Are you happy now? You’re a savage and a beast.”

Connor lifts his head blearily from his desk, “Wha?”

Markus peers at him before asking, “Did you sleep here?” Connor wiping at a trail of drool on his chin gives Markus his answer, “Connor, you live in the same building. How did you not make it to your own bed?” When Connor shrugs noncommittally at him, Markus moved on, “Never mind. My point is we can’t get anyone on this short of notice. Word’s gotten around that you’re—,”

“Demanding?” a deep voice asks in quiet amusement from behind them. Markus whirls around to face the speaker while Connor peeks around Markus’ torso in mild interest. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m the HK800 sent by Cyberlife.”

“Cyberlife? Who placed a request to CyberLi—You know what? It doesn’t matter,” Markus decides before Connor can come into full consciousness. He walks up to the HK800 before asking, “You know what’s expected of you? HR filled you in on the job?”

The HK800 smiles down at him, more at ease than Markus has ever seen an android, “I know how to make black coffee, yes.” With a slight raise of his eyebrow, Markus nods at the peculiar machine before beating a hasty retreat. Markus knows how Connor feels about androids in the fashion industry.

When Connor’s vision comes into focus, the first thing he sees is a pair of concerned blue eyes. Then he takes in the circling LED and rears back, “Oh, no. Absolutely not.” The android doesn’t react; instead, he peers into Connor’s pupils.

“You need to drink less caffeine and get more sleep.” The android straightens up, clearly awaiting an order.

“I don’t work with androids,” Connor says, not unkindly, “I don’t have anything against you lot, but you’re not the most creative sort, are you? I need an assistant who can help—,”

“The last time you required an assistant’s help to design in living memory was well before the creation of this company. I assure you, I am more than capable of whatever job you may need me to perform.”

Connor peers at the HK800 suspiciously, “How do you know that?”

“Like anyone with an internet connection, I, too, can surf the web.” Connor stares at the android, gobsmacked. No one has spoken to him with such candor and bluntness since he launched his design company.

He rises to take in the android standing before him. He notices that Cyberlife made this model look older. Not feeble, but certainly past the flush of youth. Most of the androids he’s seen have looked young and pristine; this one looks rugged and rough around the edges. If Connor had to guess an age, he’d say late forties or early fifties. The android’s hair was a strange cross between light brown and silver, pulled back into a loose ponytail. If pressed, he wouldn’t be able to say which was the dominant color. His beard was definitely more generously speckled with grey than the hair on his head.

He’s also massive, a fact that elevates Connor’s heart rate considerably. The android must notice because he says, “You should sit down; your stress levels are rising well beyond normal ranges.” Connor does sit, but mostly because he’s exhausted. He shifts his papers around, looking for his most recent attempts at sketching an outfit.

Without looking at the android, he issues an order, “Get me a black coffee, and, I mean a _black_ coff—” When he looks up the android is already gone. “Huh,” he murmurs to himself before turning his attention to the sketch in front of him. When the HK800 returns, he has a steaming cup of coffee in his hand.

“Black,” he offers, before sliding it towards Connor, “Dull bean water, as requested.” Connor jolts at the comment, unused to androids offering much in the way of opinions. Certainly not before being asked, anyway.

“Thanks,” he says with a fair amount of skepticism. After having twelve assistants prove themselves incapable of getting the order right, he has his doubts. He takes a sip and is pleased to discover it is, in fact, black coffee. The HK800 sees Connor’s shoulders relax a fraction, and a small, pleased smile flits across his face.

“What am I supposed to call you?” Connor asks after taking a hearty gulp.

The android considers him for a moment, “You may call me Hank.” Connor peers at him quizzically, the word choice sounding oddly like he’s giving Connor permission.

“Hank? Why not Henry? That’s the—,”

Hank interrupts him with a smile, “Henry sounds very formal. I prefer Hank.”

“Ok, Hank,” Connor sweeps the numerous papers on his desk into a pile, “I need you to go over these invoices. Follow up on the ones that haven’t paid yet and file away the ones that are up to date. After that, I’ll probably be ready for another cup of coffee. At some point, I need you to go buy me another pack of menthols. It’s going to be a long day, I can feel it. Oh, and I need you to run my shirt down to the dry cleaners. Sleeping at my desk didn’t do it any favors.”

Hank stares at him, LED spinning a calm blue. Taking that as a good sign, Connor declines to repeat himself as he usually must with human assistants. He rises before stripping out of his shirt and handing it out to Hank.

After several seconds pass of Hank continuing to stare, Connor notices he’s uncomfortably exposed. Hank’s eyes flit up and down his torso, his gaze holding a hint of…approval?  “Well?” he asks, giving the shirt a little shake. Hank blinks twice before taking it without a word, his fingers brushing over Connor’s in the process. They’re warm but rough in texture. It’s an odd feature for an android and Connor isn’t certain what the purpose for it is.

He steps back to his desk, opening a bottom drawer and extracting a well-worn hoodie. It clashes oddly with his high-end slacks. “I’d prefer for you to prioritize the dry cleaners. I don’t want anyone seeing me in my house clothes.” When Hank nods at him, Connor turns his attention back to the sketch. Huffing loudly, he crumples it up and tosses it into the trashcan before beginning work on a new one.

An hour passes without Connor’s notice, feverishly sketching as he is. Hank enters the office, skirting around chairs and a coffee table meant for clients and guests, before placing a new cup of coffee on Connor’s desk. When Connor doesn’t acknowledge it, Hank rumbles, “Your coffee.”

“Where’s my shirt?” he snaps out the question and Hank arches an eyebrow at him. Quailing under his gaze, Connor starts over, “Thanks for the coffee, but I need my shirt.”

Hank seems to accept the amended statement, “It should be ready for pick up in twenty minutes. I’ll retrieve your cancer sticks when I go to get it.”

Connor resists the urge to gape at Hank. Instead, he asks, “Are you always this rude or is it your model’s specialty?”

Hank levels an amused expression at him and Connor has to admit it’s a good simulation, “I am one of a kind. I have several unique features. In addition to fetching coffee and wrinkled shirts, I have several speech protocols to allow me to integrate more freely. The Professional setting was deemed most likely to please you.”

“So you want to please me?” Connor says with a grin before realizing he’s precariously close to openly flirting with the android.

He’s about to retract the statement, blame it on exhaustion when Hank’s voice cleaves the moment in half, “Like that’s fucking possible.”

Before Connor can do much more than flap his jaw like a fish out of water, Hank continues, “I apologize. It seems discussing my speech protocols triggered access to all of them. I slipped into the one that I find most comfortable.”

The statement is boggling, “Androids don’t have preferences…do they?” Connor tries and fails to think of a single instance where an android expressed anything of the sort to him—other than the particular android standing in front of him.

Hank considers him carefully before replying, “Not that they tell you.”

A shiver runs down Connor’s spine and he rolls his shoulders against it before asking, “Are you a deviant?” Even squirreled away in his office, Connor has heard the news. Androids revolting, _deviating_ , but he doesn’t know much more than that.

“No, I’m not,” is Hank’s only response before checking his watch. It’s an action that Connor knows to be pointless given that androids have internal clocks. He assumes it must be another one of Hank’s mannerisms designed to help him integrate. “I’ve restored the default speech setting. I’m going to pick up your shirt.”

Connor watches as Hank takes large strides from the room, his eyes lingering a bit too long. He calls out just before Hank makes it to the door, “Oh, and my cigarettes. Don’t forget.”

Half out the door, Hank replies, “I never forget. I was just hoping you might.” When Connor makes a confused face, Hank adds, “For your health.” With a wink, he shuts the door behind him.

“The hell?” Connor shakes his head and looks down at the sketch he’s spent the better part of the morning working on. What he thought was progress now looks like useless trash. He stuffs it into a ball with excess force before knocking it into the bin on top of his previous attempt. Downing half his coffee in three gulps, he starts on a new draft.

When Hank returns, Connor is face down. He approaches and rests one large hand on a slight shoulder, “Are you having an episode, Mr. Arkait?” Connor jerks away from his touch more in irritation with his word choice than his proximity.

“No, I’m not having an _episode_. I’m…I’m regrouping,” he gestures at the many crumpled balls of rejected designs in the trash. Hank stoops to pick one up, but Connor shouts, “Don’t!”

Hearing the panicked note, Hank pauses, “Why?”

Connor groans, “Because it’s _bad_. They’re all bad. Don’t look at it.” Staring Connor dead in the eye, Hank places the paper on the table and smooths it out before deliberately casting his eyes downward. Connor lunges for the paper, but Hank’s hands don’t budge when he pulls.

“I’m no designer, but these aren’t bad. They’re aesthetically pleasing and—,” Connor tears at the paper and Hank’s eyes go wide.

“Lady Gaga doesn’t want an aesthetic or a—a whatever it is I was trying to do there. It’s not good enough. I produced better pieces when I was still a teenager. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” He slumps back into his chair, just shy of pouting, “I need another coffee.”

“That will be your third,” Hank comments before sweeping the torn up paper across the desk back into the trash.

“Yes. As a grown adult, I know how to count to three,” Connor snarks in irritations.

After a brief pause, Hank says quietly, “As a grown adult, I would hope you’d realizing consuming caffeine after noon is a poor decision.” Before Connor can snap out a reply, Hank continues, “But, you’re the boss. One piping hot cup of bean water it is.”

When Hank returns, Connor’s resolved to address the android’s odd behavior, “So I know you’re the only HK800—,”

“Correct,” Hank interrupts with a small smile.

Connor frowns, continuing, “Maybe your protocols are different than other models, but I don’t have time for you to question me when I ask you to get a simple cup of coffee.”

Hank frowns at him, “I didn’t question you.” Connor starts to object when Hank cuts him off, “I informed you it was your third cup of coffee and that caffeine in the late afternoon isn’t good for you. I never said you _couldn’t_ have it.”

Connor narrows his eyes, realizing he’s winning battles while Hank is maneuvering to win some unknown war.

When two o’clock rolls around, Connor pushes away from his desk to grab a smoke. He’s no further than he was when he woke up that morning and he’s in a foul humor. At the first inhale of menthol, his neck muscles uncoil a fraction. Not enough to release the tension there but better than nothing.

“Do you want me to order your lunch or are you going to go out to get it?” Hank asks the question as if Connor eating is a foregone conclusion. He turns to wave him off when Hank thrusts three menus under his nose, “Based on your previous purchasing history, you like these three establishments best.”

Tired despite the caffeine, Connor decides food would probably do his some good, “Fine. Get me a number three from the bakery on the corner. Make sure they don’t skimp on the honey mustard.” When Hank gives him an odd look, Connor presses the issue, “They’re condiment fascists, okay?” Hank gives him a slight smile before assuring Connor he will take care of it.

When he returns, Connor is back at his desk, hand moving rapidly across the paper as he sketches. Hank sets the bag down lightly on Connor’s desk before peering at the drawing. It looks remarkably similar to the drafts Connor’s rejected numerous times over the course of the day.

“Maybe you should take a break and eat your lunch,” he offers casually and Connor’s hand freezes.

“Maybe you shouldn’t interrupt me when I’m in the middle of a sketch.” Connor doesn’t look at Hank as he says it, and, when Hank offers no rebuttal, he resumes working on the design. He doesn’t notice Hank’s glower or his silent approach.

When Hank’s hand comes down on his shoulder, Connor jerks badly, running a jagged line across his picture, “What the fu—” The explicative dies in his mouth when Hank spins the chair relying only on his grip on Connor’s shoulder. He looms over him, leaning down and in so that their faces are only inches apart.

“I think,” Hank begins slowly as if Connor is a unique kind of stupid he’s never encountered before, “that you should eat. You’ve consumed nothing but caffeine and cigarettes today. You’re drawing the same picture and discarding it repeatedly. Is this not the definition of insanity?”

Connor steals a glance at his sketch then looks back to Hank, noting the yellow rotation of his LED, “This bothers you.” It’s not a question but an observation. “You shouldn’t care abou—”

“My objective is to assist you. You don’t fuc—you don’t let me. It’s annoying.”

Connor narrows his eyes, not missing the near-swear, “I thought you switched off that protocol.”

Hank doesn’t even have the good grace to look chagrined, “Dealing with you is frustrating and putting unnecessary stress on my processors. Sometimes, things slip.”

Connor doubts this explanation but takes umbrage all the same, “You say it like I’m a brat.”

“Because you are,” is Hank’s immediate answer. Connor gapes at him, floundering for a response. No one, much less an assistant, has ever spoken to him like this. When the seconds stretch uncomfortably, Hank presses his advantage, “And I know a variety of solutions to handling brats.”

When Hank leans away in favor of grabbing Connor’s lunch, Connor exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His heart pounds wildly in his chest as he tries to get a grip. As he attempts to sort out what it is he’s feeling, Hank sets the bag down in front of him, his expression expectant.

When Connor doesn’t move, Hank pulls out a sandwich he can only describe as _frilly_. He’d felt ridiculous ordering it, watching the sullen worker assemble layers of cheddar, apple slices, and turkey. As the morose girl went to place it onto a conveyor to toast it, Hank reminded her firmly to load up on the honey mustard.

Connor reaches around the sandwich for his discarded pencil, “I’ll eat it in a minute. I just want to finish this sketch.” He hears Hank murmur something that sounds suspiciously like _that’s cute_ before he plucks the pencil from Connor’s grip.

“Either you eat it yourself right now or I feed it to you. Take your pick.” Connor eyes Hank’s thick fingers for a moment before deciding it’s not worth the fight.

“Fine,” he says loftily as if eating is entirely his idea. When he takes his first bite of the fussy sandwich, a small tremor of bliss ripples across his face. He doesn’t notice Hank’s smug smile. When a small, contented moan slips across his lips, Hank’s eyes narrow in interest. After a few more of the borderline obscene noises, Hank can’t help himself.

“You are very vocal.”

Connor freezes at the observation, not realizing he’d been making sounds. He starts to mumble an apology when Hank steamrolls him, “I like it.” Connor blushes furiously and opts to take a large bite of his sandwich in favor of coming up with a suitable reply.

The next several weeks continue in this fashion, with Connor growing progressively more flustered with his work and Hank’s speech increasing in profanity with every meal Connor tries to skip. Connor gives up on trying to correct Hank as his impending deadline consumes the majority of his thought processes. The small flare-ups between the two of them increase in frequency and ire as well.

“You need to eat, Connor. You’re going to pass out if you don’t.” Hank drops a paper bag on top of Connor’s sketch to emphasize his point.

Connor pushes it aside, “I need to finish this detail. I’m close; I can feel it!”

Pinching his nose in growing irritation, Hank tries again, “Connor—”

“I said I need to finish this!” Connor snaps. Hank is unimpressed by the interruption and Connor shrinks under the look he gives him. He doesn’t resist when the large android shoves a baked good into his mouth.

“Eat the fucking bagel,” Hank all but growls before stomping out of the room. When he returns ten minutes later, he’s carrying a steaming cup of coffee. Connor thaws slightly at the sight.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, accepting the olive branch. His fingers linger over Hank’s for a moment longer than necessary as the cup exchanges hands. When he takes a sip, he eyes the cup suspiciously, “Did you put chocolate creamer in this?” His eyes search the office for Hank, landing on him as he organizes drawers full of spare bits of fabric, ties, and belts Connor keeps around for inspiration.

Busily separating the ties by color and pattern, he doesn’t look at Connor when he speaks, “You deserve better than hot bean water.” An odd mix of sensations converge in Connor’s gut. The first, he recognizes immediately: shame. He’s behaved poorly toward Hank from the moment he arrived and Hank, more or less, put up with it. Not gracefully—the numerous instances of being told to shut up and eat flit in the background of Connor’s mind—but he’s still here.

The second is harder to identify. It’s a happy feeling but more complicated. He doesn’t often experience approval in the office. His fans and clients gush praise for his work, but it feels hollow. Markus is rarely happy with Connor, largely because Connor struggles with deadlines. With no real boss to report to, Connor doesn’t receive validation from a superior source. Hearing it from Hank was the closest he’s ever come to it.

With a small start, Connor realizes he’s mentally placed Hank above him on the corporate ladder. “Absurd,” he mutters to himself, trying to shake the thought.

Forgetting that Hank has ridiculous hearing power, the android turns his head to look at him, a curious expression on his face, “You really don’t know how to be kind to yourself, do you?” Not wanting to disabuse Hank of the notion that he was responding to his statement, Connor shrugs and finishes his bagel.

Connor tries to remind himself of their friendlier interactions when Hank digs in his heels over Connor’s fourth request for coffee that day. “You really shouldn’t. It’s after eight o’clock. You shouldn’t even be here anymore. Go home.” Hot, angry words form in Connor’s mouth, battling each other over which he should say first. Hank’s hands resting on his shoulders sends them scattering. Heat emanates from them through his shirt.

“Lady Gaga will be here for a design reveal in less than a month, I have _nothing_ to show her, and you think I should _go home_?” The last two words come out loud and at a higher octave, frustration and incredulity coloring his tone.

Hank’s hands tighten almost painfully before he says quietly, “You can’t keep going like this. You’ll make yourself sick.”

“If you’re not going to get me coffee, I’ll do it my damn self,” Connor tries to rise, but Hank’s hands keep him in place. When he tries to push them off, Hank doesn’t budge. The android’s fingers seem to tremble for a moment as if fighting with himself to hold on and let go at the same time. 

After several quiet, tense seconds, the tremors stop. Whatever internal debate Hank had just had, Connor can tell he’s made up his mind. The large android growls out, “The hell you will,” before stepping close enough for his stomach to nudge the back of Connor’s head. His belt buckle ghosts across the top of Connor’s neck sending a shiver down his spine.  

Connor’s heart beats in an uneven staccato when Hank’s thumb strokes lightly at the back of his neckline. He knows he’s never had much success in exerting control over Hank, but the shift in dynamics is palpable.

“What are you doing?” the question comes out of him as a whisper when Hank presses both of his thumbs into the stiff muscles along Connor’s neck and shoulders. Despite his trepidation, Connor melts into the touch, feeling stress leave his body. He can’t remember the last time someone put their hands on him like this.

Hank’s fingers continue to knead into Connor’s skin when he answers, “Disregarding the rules.” Connor groans when Hank runs a particularly broad stroke from the base of his neck to the edge of his shoulder. 

After Hank repeats the motion on the other shoulder, Connor asks a little breathily, “What does that mean?”

“I’m going to take care of you since you refuse to do so yourself.” Of all the responses he could have given, Connor did not anticipate that one. A new and alarming theory takes root in his mind.

Deciding to put it to the test, he issues an order, “I told you to bring me a coffee.” Hank’s hands go still for a moment and then he _laughs_.

Absolute certainty courses through Connor’s veins when Hank’s only reply is, “No,” before his hands start to move again.

“You’re a deviant.” It’s not a question and Hank doesn’t deny it. Hank must sense Connor’s rising distress because he releases his hold on him before spinning the chair around. Scared brown eyes lock onto tranquil blue ones, searching for malevolent intent.

Finding none, Connor’s heart rate evens out a little. Hank tries to calm him, “I’m not going to hurt you. I want to help you.” One large hand cups Connor’s face before running a thumb over his cheekbone, “Let me help you.” Hank’s LED rotates twice but remains blue.

Connor takes several rapid shallow breaths before asking, “How?”

Hank runs his fingertips down Connor’s chest before answering, “I’ve watched you neglect your needs for over a month. You need to relieve some stress.” His hand hovers just above Connor’s belt, waiting. It’s a choice and it doesn’t take Connor long to make his decision. He thrusts up into Hank’s palm, a groan quick on the heels of the first brush of friction.

Hank smiles down at him, “My thoughts exactly.” His fingers drift across the crotch of Connor’s pants before he turns his hand, offering it palm up to Connor. When Connor takes it, Hank’s fingers close, firm and sure, before hauling him up out of the chair.

The second he’s on his feet, Connor yanks at his tie to loosen it before pulling it off and dropping it onto his desk. His fingers fly up to the uppermost button of his shirt before one of Hank’s hands closes over both of his, “Some things shouldn’t be rushed.”

Connor opens his mouth to complain, but Hank is on him before he can form words. As promised, he takes his time. The first gentle press of his lips is feather soft. Connor’s tongue demands entrance and Hank chuckles into his mouth, “So impatient.” When Connor pouts, Hank clarifies, “Is there somewhere more comfortable than your office?”

Connor’s eyes flick up as if he can see through the ceiling, “Yes. I live in the building.”

Hank snorts before musing to himself, “Why am I not surprised?” Before Connor can complain, Hank sweeps his arm toward the office door, “Lead the way.”

In the time it takes for them to get from his office to the elevator, Connor’s nerves consume him. His fingers tremble as he tries to insert his card to grant him after-hours access. After his second fumble, Hank’s hand engulfs his and guides the card into the slot.

When the doors open with a ding, Connor twitches; it’s not empty. “Still here, Connor?” Markus asks, unsurprised. He waits as they board and Connor punches the number for his floor. Hank steps a pace behind Markus, out of his peripheral, and Connor follows. Markus, consumed by a report, doesn’t notice. “Did you know there’s a gym on the 22nd? floor? All this time, I’ve been going four blocks over and there was one right above my head.”

Connor gives a vague _hmm_ in response while Hank simultaneously replies, “Is that so?” Connor gives the android an odd look before freezing on the spot when Hank’s hand drifts up to toy with the small of his back through his shirt.

Still pouring over the report, Markus doesn’t look up when answering, “It’s pretty decent. Has all the right equipment.” He chews on the end of a pen before asking, “Connor, have you seen the third quarter data? Sales were way up for some reason, but I don’t see why. It’s worth investigating; we might be able to replicate it.”

Connor opens his mouth, trying to form a response, but Hank’s hand sinking over the swell of his ass prevents him from talking. With an amused smile, Hank answers for him, “I can go over the data banks and cross-reference marketing campaigns to see if there is a simple answer.” Markus agrees and continues to flip through the pages of the document in his hands.

Connor tries to control his breathing, hoping to god Markus doesn’t look at him. When Hank’s fingers dig into the curve where Connor’s right buttock connects to his thigh, he has to turn a sharp inhalation into a fake cough. Hank drops his hand in favor of clasping them behind his back, his expression serene. Markus turns a critical gaze on Connor, “I told you those cigarettes are bad for you.”

Connor grumbles a reply, counting down the floors until Markus will leave. After an agonizing forty seconds, they reach Markus’ destination. He exits with a wave, “See you tomorrow, Connor.” Connor gives him a nod, waiting for the elevator doors to close. The second they do, he rounds on Hank, indignation coloring every inch of his being. Before he can give Hank what for, the android’s hand are on his face, pulling him into a kiss. Irritation melts into desire as Connor leans against the broad expanse of Hank’s chest.

When Hank releases his mouth, Connor mutters, “It’s not fair.” Hank arches one amused eyebrow and Connor continues, a little flushed, “You can do all that with Markus right _there_ and not react at all. Like it has no effect on you.”

Hank’s response is to grab Connor’s hand and pull it to the crotch of his own pants. Connor’s blush deepens at the considerable bulge he feels there. “You affect me,” Hank murmurs and he steps back a pace when the elevator dings, opening the doors. Seeing the empty hall culminating at a single door, Hank takes Connor’s hand, leading the way.

“You have the entire wing to yourself?” Connor nods as he fits his key into the lock. His apartment is much like his office: large and Spartan when it comes to decorations. Hank allows Connor to tug him down a hall into what is obviously his bedroom. Hank takes in severe, dark grey drapes and a large canopy bed swathed with equally austere curtains. Once there, Connor appears at a loss for what to do next. He turns to face Hank, startling to find him directly behind him.

Struggling with no such indecision, Hank’s hands rise to the neck of Connor’s shirt, working open the buttons there. “You are a peculiar mix of contradictions,” he says it quietly, running rough fingers down the exposed plane of Connor’s chest.

“What do you mean?” he asks the obvious question, hoping to hurry Hank along, but the android doesn’t have any interest in being rushed. He slips the fabric of Connor’s shirt over one shoulder before pressing a kiss to it, his neatly trimmed beard teasing at Connor’s pale skin. Connor’s head falls to the side, and Hank takes the invitation. He presses gentle kisses to it before laughing lightly.

“I mean this,” Hank says it in a low voice before sucking at the crook of Connor’s neck, eliciting a moan. Connor offers no resistance when Hank pulls the shirt off entirely. The android continues, elaborating his answer “You strut around, hurling orders at people hoping if you bark loud enough, they won’t notice there’s no bite.” Connor tries to protest, but Hank’s massive hands drifting down his bared chest to work at his belt makes coherent speech difficult.

“You make countless decisions for your clients everyday—what color, what embellishment, what pattern they will wear—but when it comes to yourself, you balk. You wait for _me_ to decide.”

Even in his aroused state, Connor’s ego flares at the statement, “Oh, I do nah-ahht.” His ability to remain combative wanes significantly when Hank tugs his straining cock free of his briefs. Hank walks Connor backward, lightly stroking him until the backs of his knees connect with the edge of his bed, forcing him to sit.

“You don’t know how to take care of yourself. I tell you when to eat and when to go home. I curtail your coffee and cigarette breaks in favor of improving your diet and sleeping habits.” Hank’s tone is light as if admonishing his boss while pulling off his pants is nothing out of the ordinary.   

Pinned under Hank’s gaze, Connor realizes there is a distinct disparity between the amount of clothes they’re wearing. He manages to get one of Hank’s shirt buttons open before the android’s large hand wraps around his wrists. Standing between Connor’s legs, he looms over him before pressing him down onto the bed. Feeling his legs dangle awkwardly, Connor brings them up to wrap around Hank’s waist.

When his cock brushes the crotch of Hank’s slacks, he bucks up into it with a moan. Hank smiles down at him, pinning his arms over his head with one hand, “You never think about yourself.” Connor turns his head to the side, trying to hide from the truth but Hank presses on, “You try to make your fans love you, but they always want more. It leaves you empty.”

Hank runs his free hand along Connor’s cheek, turning his head to look at him, “It’s exhausting you.” He leans down to nip at Connor’s ear before running his nose along the shell of it and murmuring, “Tell me what you need.” Connor arches up into Hank’s chest, trying to increase contact, but it’s not enough.

“Please, Hank,” he writhes under Hank, trying to goad him into action, but he doesn’t budge or loosen his grip on Connor’s wrists.

“I can give you anything you need, but you have to _ask_ ,” Connor groans, a flush spreading from his collarbones to the tips of his ears.

“Kiss me,” it comes out a whisper and Hank smiles into his skin.

“Where?”

Connor’s answer is immediate, “Anywhere.” Hank mouths at Connor’s neck, pulling a whimper from him when his nips at it lightly. He kisses freckles at random across his shoulders and chest while one huge hand remains splayed against his stomach, preventing him from grinding into Hank.

“What else?” Hank mumbles the question against Connor’s nipple before tugging it lightly between his teeth.

Connor jerks in surprise, stammering, “Touch me, please.”

Hank gives him an expectant look and Connor knows he wants him to be more direct. Connor’s mind hones in on Hank’s hands, remembers the texture of his fingers, and he knows without a doubt what he _wants_ but saying it is another matter entirely.

“Please, I can’t—don’t… _please_ ,” hearing his distress, Hank silences him with a kiss while releasing his hands.

“It’s ok, you don’t have to say it,” he says it soothingly while running his fingers through Connor’s hair. “We’ll get there.” He places Connor’s hand on his own before offering, “Show me.”

Connor guides Hank’s hand down to his straining erection, and that’s all the directive Hank needs. Hank eyes the bedside drawer before yanking it open, pleased with his correct preconstruction. Upending a partially used bottle of lube, he slicks the length of Connor’s dick before working him in gentle strokes.

Hands finally free, Connor’s fingers fly to Hank’s shirt. This time, he doesn’t stop him. Pausing briefly, Hank shakes out of his shirtsleeves while Connor stares. Hank sees his eyes rove across his chest before making their way down to his slacks.

He reaches out a tentative hand, but Hank shakes his head, “They stay on.” Connor’s eyes snap up to meet Hank’s, dark with lust and disappointment. “For now,” Hank amends and Connor’s demeanor improves.

Curiosity piqued, he asks a simple, “Why?” He wants to see all of Hank, wants to touch him.

Hank gives a small shrug, “I don’t want to scare you.” Connor shudders at the statement, wondering what Hank is packing. When Hank’s fingers find his cock again, his concerns flutter away to the corners of the room.

It isn’t long before Connor is bucking up into Hank’s grip, breathy moans becoming steadily louder. When Connor lets out a particularly loud groan, Hank smiles, “I had hoped you’d be expressive.” Connor throws an arm over his face to hide his embarrassment, but Hank tugs it down, “I enjoy it.”

When Connor’s movements become more erratic, Hank guesses he must be close. He slows his pace while his free hand drifts down to cradle Connor’s balls before dipping lower to circle around his puckered hole.

“What do you need?” Hank echoes the refrain and Connor’s hands twist into the comforter in desperate search of an anchor. When Connor doesn’t answer, Hank prods his finger a fraction of an inch inside him, “Do you want me to get you off? To fuck you?”

Overwhelmed, Connor groans out, “Both.”

Hank smiles down at him before asking, “In what order?” When Connor does little more than blush, Hank sets a teasing pace of light strokes, fanning Connor’s desires without giving him enough to push him over the edge.

“Hank, please. I can’t, I need you to—,” Connor’s words break off in a garbled sound when Hank’s fingers resume toying at his entrance. Without lube, Connor knows he won’t go further than this without his say so.

Sure enough, within seconds, Hank makes the demand, “Use your words, Connor.” Connor tries to buck up into Hank’s grip before grinding down against the finger running casual circles around the rim of his hole.

When Connor lets out a frustrated whimper, Hank makes a shushing sound, “Shh, it’s alright.” Chest heaving and cock aching, Connor has never felt further from _alright_. He teeters on the edge of words, trying to make them come out when Hank leans down to whisper in his ear, “Tell me how to take care of you.”

Like a Jenga block pulled from a precarious tower, Connor’s composure comes tumbling down, “Please, Hank. I need you inside me; I want to feel you. Please, make me come…” Hank listens as Connor babbles his desires in waves, reaching once more for the lube. The endless torrent of progressively filthier requests halts only when Hank runs a lube up finger around Connor’s rim before sinking in deep.

“…fuck me in ha-aaalf,” the latter part of the word lilts upward as Connor tries to thrust down as far as he can on Hank’s finger.

“I will; don’t worry,” Hank smirks at him before working in a second finger, “but you need to _relax_.” Hank punctuates the word by pressing deep, fingers barely brushing over Connor’s prostate.

It’s not enough and Connor whines his distress, “Please, Hank. Faster.” He hears the android chuckle before a warm, calloused grip resumes stroking at his length.

“Believe me,” Hank offers when Connor groans in frustration, “you want me to take my time.” Connor’s eyes fly open when Hank adds a third finger, whole-heartedly disagreeing.

After several minutes of torturous writhing beneath Hank’s hands, the android working him open with careful attention, Connor reaches his limit, “Hank, _please_.” Either satisfied with his handiwork or noting Connor’s neediness is boarding on hysterical, Hank releases his grip on Connor while withdrawing his hand.

Connor rises up onto his elbows to watch Hank work at his belt. When his pants begin to slide down thick, powerful thighs, Connor briefly wonders why androids don’t wear underwear. When Hank’s dick comes into full view, the question dies on his tongue, replaced by a new one.

“Why,” Connor begins, throat a little dry, “are you _that_ big?”

Hank looks down at his own rigid cock before offering Connor a pleased smirk, “I told you we needed to take our time.” Connor flops back on the bed, a throbbing ache pulsing up and down his shaft at distinct odds with the trepidation pooling in his gut.

Hank must sense it because he leans down to press a kiss just to the side of Connor’s mouth before saying in a soft tone, “I won’t hurt you.” A frenetic noise caught somewhere between a laugh and a moan escapes Connor’s throat, but he nods.

“How do you want it?” Connor nearly comes undone when Hank breathes the question into his ear. It wasn’t that Hank had been wrong in his assessment of Connor. It was that Connor hadn’t wanted to admit it. Having overlooked his own needs for so long, Connor can’t remember the last time he’d bedded anyone much less someone who cared about how he felt.

Being a public figure had its drawbacks in the romance department—primarily becoming a conquest to fans with varying degrees of intentions. After a few unfortunate one-night stands that became very public headlines the next day, Connor stopped dating altogether.

Finding himself on the receiving end of an android whose sole interest is in taking care of him, Connor feels the simultaneous urge to laugh and to cry. Instead, he asks with hushed words, “Why are you like this?”

Hank’s LED completes one blue circuit before providing his answer, “Because you need me to be.” The moment the words are out of his mouth, Connor knows them to be true. He reaches out to Hank, pulling him down on him, letting his weight crush him into the fine bedding. Hank pulls back, eyebrows still raised in a question.

Making his decision, Connor says with braver words than he feels, “I want to ride you.” If the request shocks Hank, he doesn’t show it. He responds by abruptly rolling onto his back, taking Connor with him, making him squeal. When upright, Connor swats at Hank’s shoulder, “You’re a beast.” Hank makes a sound that could be agreement or a growl. A pink hue dusts the tops of Connor’s cheekbones, but he reaches for the lube undeterred.

When he wraps his hand around Hank’s girth, a small, strangled sound escapes his throat.

“Take your time,” Hank reminds him and Connor nods. With each moment of inaction, he worries he’ll lose his nerve. It’s been a long time and Hank is…

Big. There isn’t any other word for it.

When Hank shifts beneath him, the blunt head of his cock prods at Connor’s entrance. Both let out a groan, Connor’s pitched noticeably higher. Bracing a hand against Hank’s broad chest, Connor shifts their alignment before sinking down onto the top of Hank’s dick. Seconds stretch into what feels like an eternity as Connor’s world reduces to splitting himself in two around Hank’s cock.

When he bottoms out, his chest heaves and his mouth falls open in a gasp. Hank’s cool, blue eyes take in everything about Connor’s expression, a gentle hand rising to caress his face. Connor leans into the touch before digging the heels of his palms into Hank’s shoulders. He rises barely more than an inch before sliding back to the hilt, increasing the distance with each rise and fall.

When he pulls up almost to the tip, he hesitates, “Hank?” Hungry blue eyes bore into him, and Connor realizes that, although Hank has been mostly quiet, he wants more. A warm pulse spreads from Connor’s chest to his fingertips at Hank’s controlled restraint.

“What do you need?” the oft-repeated question comes out thick with carnal longing and Connor sinks into the sound of it, dropping back down Hank’s shaft. It’s not enough.

Connor lowers himself onto Hank’s chest, tucking his face into the crook of Hank’s neck, “I want you to fuck me.”

He had hoped Hank would take the simple answer, but he’s unsurprised when Hank counters back, “We are fucking.” Connor decides no one, not even an android, has any right to sound that coy while balls deep in his boss and lets out an angry huff. He’s on the verge of a sharp retort when Hank’s hands wrap around him.

“Like this?” Hank asks as he bucks in an unexpected thrust. At the first drag of Hank’s cock against his prostate, Connor’s knees nearly give. Still, he hisses out a _yes_. On the second thrust, Connor shifts down to meet it, groaning out a ragged, “Oh my god.”

Connor knows this isn’t nearly close to the limits of Hank’s strength. He’s quite frankly not certain he would survive an unrestricted pounding from Hank, but he knows he wants more than this.

“Harder,” his mouth moves against Hank’s skin, feeling his beard scratch against his own smooth-shaven cheek.

When Hank speaks, it reverberates through his throat to Connor’s lips, “Are you sure? I don’t want to break you.”

Connor makes a choking sound at the thought, his dick impossibly hard. Throwing caution to the wind and offering a silent apology to his future self, he says in a voice just above a whisper, “I want you to ruin me.” Hank goes rigid for a moment, no doubt running preconstructions and likely possible outcomes.

He feels rather than sees Hank’s smile and he only has a moment to second-guess his decision before arms more solid than steel bars lock around his torso.

Voice deep and full of gravel, Hank issues a promise, “As you wish.” Hank withdraws nearly to the tip before slamming up into Connor, fast and deep. Connor lets out a desperate shriek, but Hank doesn’t slow his rhythm. He shifts, battering into Connor’s prostate at different angles until he finds the one that makes Connor scream out his name.

“HANK, oh god... _please!_ ” Connor isn’t sure what he’s asking for and when Hank drives into him at that same angle again, a passionate cry rips from his throat. He knows Hank enjoys when he’s loud, he’s said as much on multiple occasions, but Connor couldn’t be quiet right now if he tried.

Heat and tension coil deep inside him, his impending orgasm building with each unrelenting thrust. He hears himself babbling nonsense and doesn’t care. Unable to do much else other than hang on, Connor clings to Hank, voice cracking around screams from overuse.

“Hank,” it comes out deeper than usual, his throat slightly raw, “Hank, I’m going to…going to–”

“I know,” Hank cuts him off and continues his brutal pace. Connors shrieks dwindle to yelps then whimpers, his lips tingling from rapid breathing. He feels liquid heat writhe and twist before arching through his veins, his orgasm bursting between them. His skin pulses in time with his heart, his vision blazing white before dissolving into flickering stars.

He expects Hank to slow down or stop, but he doesn’t. His thrusts aren’t as deep, but they are just as demanding, “Hank,” Connor groans, drowning under excess stimulation, “Hank, please.”

Hank considers him for a moment before asking, “Are you ruined yet?” He ends the question with another thrust and Connor sobs out a _yes_ at the sensation.

Hank presses a kiss into Connor’s hair before muttering, “Good,” and slamming into him one final time. Even if Connor had the strength to scream, he doubts Hank would have heard it over his own guttural groan. Hank’s release is warm and wet, and Connor wonders fleetingly what it’s made of. When Hank releases his grip on Connor’s torso, he sags into Hank’s frame.

Hank lifts one hand to trace along Connor’s spine before mumbling, “We should clean you up.” Connor’s inclined to disagree, fully prepared to fall asleep while sprawled across Hank’s hulking chest. He makes a disgruntled sound when Hank pulls out of him, synthetic semen following swiftly behind. With gentle hands, Hank shifts Connor off him and onto the bed.

“Mine will evaporate in time,” Hank says with a smug smile as he makes his way to the master bath, “yours will not.” Connor grumbles half-heartedly about egocentric androids until Hank returns with a warm, wet washcloth, his hair pulled free from its usual ponytail.

Connor hesitates at the edge of his bed after cleaning himself up, uncertain how to proceed now that the afterglow is wearing off. He can feel soreness setting in and he wonders how on earth he’s going to sit at his desk the following day. Before he can put a voice to those concerns, large, warm hands envelop around his abdomen before hauling him completely onto the mattress.

“You need to sleep,” Hank says, giving no signs of leaving Connor’s bed. He smiles faintly, slotting into the space between Hank’s arm and his chest.

“I think, for once, I’ll be able to do that,” Connor says, feeling sleep creep in slowly to weigh down his eyelids.

Hank’s chest rumbles with a laugh, “Aren’t you glad I didn’t let you have that fourth cup of coffee?”

Connor’s eyes narrow in suspicion before asking incredulously, “You deviated over a cup of coffee?”

“No,” Hank says with a smile, carding a hand through Connor’s ruffled hair, “I deviated because you’re a brat.” Before Connor can object, Hank pulls him into a gentle kiss. When they break apart, he runs a finger down Connor’s jaw before amending, “I deviated to take care of you.”

Flushing at the admission, Connor tucks his head under Hank’s chin before offering a quiet, “I’m glad.”

When he awakes in the morning, he finds a hot mug of coffee on his bedside table along with an old sketchpad from the early days before he was famous or anyone knew his name.

He flips through a few pages with a smile before fingering at one in particular. When he looks up, he finds Hank leaning against the doorway, “I thought you might find some inspiration from your younger self.” Connor hums in agreement, mind already racing with designs.

When Lady Gaga walks the red carpet a month later, Connor is nestled on his couch next to Hank. While Hank’s gaze is on the TV, Connor’s eyes keep flicking over to look at Hank’s face.

“ _Who are you wearing tonight?_ ” the interviewer asks and Connor hears Lady Gaga speak his name. Impatience builds as he wills his face to remain neutral.

“ _It’s a new line, actually. Mr. Arkait told me so himself. He plans to release it in the spring_.” Connor sucks in a breath, willing the interviewer to ask the question.

“ _Does the collection have a name?_ ” Connor turns to look Hank full in the face, waiting for her answer.

“ _Oh, yes. I’m wearing the first piece of the new_ Henry _line of formal wear_ —,” Connor stops paying attention to what the interviewer is saying when Hank tackles him into the couch cushions, pressing into him for a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


End file.
